


Stone Butch Blues

by Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Gender Identity, Genderfluid Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 13:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14620056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: Wil reminisces with Minerva.





	Stone Butch Blues

**Author's Note:**

> The title is of course from Leslie Feinberg's excellent Stone Butch Blues and perhaps a misrepresentation of the mood of the fic but it captures a specific era which I associate with Wil. Thanks to heyitsamorette and GT for hosting this fab challenge. Written for the rarepair bingo prompt 'genderfluid'

The name Wilhelmina never quite fit right. It always reminded Wil of floral smelling salts and pretty things; of something in bloom. Wil suspected her mother chose the name Wilhelmina in the hope that she might be blessed with a daughter interested in discussing the most complimentary shades of rouge whilst brushing her blonde ringlets clear of tangles. Wil didn’t exactly live up to expectations in that regard. Not only was she more mousy brown than blonde, but she took great pride in enthusiastically rejecting makeup, bows and anything that erred too close to pink. Her mother was horrified when young Wil brought a toad in from the garden and asked if she could keep it for a pet. ‘ _Wilhelmina!_ ,’ she said, hands aloft as she backed away from the offending amphibian, ‘get that disgusting creature away from me _this instant_.’

Wil tells Minerva the story over scotch and a slice of Poppy’s excellent fruit loaf. “I think I scarred dear mum for life.”

“Oh dear.” Minerva brushes a stray currant from her robes. “Poor mum.” She gives Wil the kind of wicked smile that had Wil driving herself loopy over Min many moons ago. “I do hope you kept the toad.”

“In a box by my bed. Tobias, I called him.”

“A very fine name for a toad,” Minerva says.

“The finest.” Wil takes a puff on her pipe and blows a smoke ring, watching it slowly unfurl. “I’ve never been overly fond of boxes, myself.”

“No.” Minerva contemplates Wil over her spectacles. “Boxes are not particularly roomy.”

“Dyke, stone butch, butch, stud.” Wil blows another contemplative circle of smoke. “There are all kinds of new words now. Genderfluid, genderqueer. And here I am, still non the wiser. Now I know how Tobias felt when he hopped out of his box and didn’t know where to put himself.”

“Don’t compare yourself to a toad.” Minerva’s lips twitch and she has a sip of her scotch. “I won’t hear of it.”

Wil laughs, the kind of deep, throaty chuckle Min can always pull from her. “In box-related uncertainty only.”

“Well,” Minerva says. “You always look very fine in a suit and that’s good enough for me.”

“I know a good tailor, and nobody can charm a waistcoat to fit like I can.” Wil flicks her wand sending a couple of buttons from the tip. They bounce on the floor and Minerva rolls her eyes, swiping them from the floor with a sweep of her wand. Wil is pleased with the compliment, even if she doesn’t say as much. “Truly, Min. Sometimes I would just like to find something that fits.” 

Magical binders, it turns out, are no better than the Muggle ones. Wil has spent a large part of her life being uncomfortable in an attempt to flatten down rotund curves or undertaking energetic bouts of gardening in the hope it might result in a more up and down silhouette. That was pre-Min, of course. A rum-sticky kiss and an unexpected fondle of said curves led to an awkward conversation in a smoky bar with Buddy Holly playing in the background. Wil said she would prefer not to be called Wilhelmina under any circumstances, explained that _she_ was mainly fine apart from on those days when it wasn’t. Sometimes Wil just feels like a _he_. Minerva asked a couple of questions, Wil puffed anxiously on her pipe and then later that night, Wil took a very deep breath and wondered aloud what Minerva might think to it being a _he_ sort of evening. Minerva said, ‘I think you’re the handsomest man I’ve ever had the pleasure of kissing’ and Wil was tremendously glad he had gone to the effort of styling his hair into a quiff for the occasion, heart thrumming in his chest with anticipation. Everything went much better than expected, even when Minerva’s nerves got the better of her and Wil got all fingers and thumbs because Minerva’s kisses tend to have that sort of impact. 

“Are you looking for a label?” Minerva doesn't say _for it_ or _for you_. She doesn't make Wil feel uneasy in her own skin, never has.

“It's a strange sort of thing to go through life with a name that doesn't sit right,” Wil says. It's the best she can do to explain it. Some days looking at herself in the mirror is like she's put on a jacket that keeps slipping off the shoulders but is too tight at the waist. There's a reason Wil is so fastidious about tailoring. If the skin doesn't always feel right, at least she can create the finest outer skin to help her confront the world head on.

“Wil.” Minerva's voice is warm and fond, like the peaty whisky. “You always liked Wil.”

“Very true.” Wil pockets her wand and puts her pipe on the table. “It feels more comfortable than Wilhelmina ever did. It fits like a warm pair of socks.”

“Albus once told me you can never have too many socks,” Minerva says. She loosens her hair a little. “Another scotch?”

“Just a nip.” Wil catches Minerva’s hand as she pours the drinks. “Thank you.”

“Always.” Minerva leans in for a kiss. “I wonder if we can get the old gramophone working again. I’m in the mood for some music.”

Wil stands and fiddles with the gramophone because it turns out she’s in the mood for music too, keen to go back to a night with smoke in the air, the jukebox whirring and Minerva’s hand sliding into her own when speaking her truth left her breathless. “Elvis?”

“Why not?” Minerva settles back in her seat and watches Wil. “I always thought you would make a wonderful Elvis.”

Wil grins as the music starts playing. She sits and swirls her whisky in her glass. Something reckless stirs in her stomach, a long held desire taking hold of her and the memory of thumbing at an old guitar coming back to her in a rush.

“Minerva,” Wil says after a sip of whisky, “do you have any particular opinion on drag kings?”

_~Fin~_


End file.
